Scum of the Earth
by Seductress Librarian
Summary: AU: Being a mutant doesn't mean you have to be in constant danger, but Jean is finding out that danger is still unavoidable...especially with Logan around. Rated for graphic violence, language and sex.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own _much_, let alone the X-Men.

Author's Notes: I should really bebeginning an essay…but I'm not. Anyway, this one's AU, for obvious reasons, but still with powers and such…just no _real_ X-Men. :) Jean/Logan, because there just isn't enough of this pairing (note: sarcasm), and _only_ this chapter is told from Jean's perspective, even though I'm not too big on the stories that do that. I hope I can pull it off, for your sake – dear Reader –as well as mine.

* * *

**Scum of the Earth**

Prologue

* * *

I can never do enough.

Every day someone else dies, or at least that's what it feels like, and I know I could've done something to stop it. And I'm not just talking about money I could've donated to a poverty-stricken third world country, or in the sense that my actions put in motion the death of another person every time I wake up in the morning…I mean I feel as if someone else has died because I haven't done enough, _literally_. I can stop deaths, if I just fill out enough forms and file them in time. I save lives this way, almost as often as I don't.

I make a difference, yes, but I can't ever satisfy the want I have to make _more_ of a difference.

I'm an administrative officer, which sounds impressive until you realize I'm only a glorified secretary with a bigger workload and the same pay. The difference between me and a secretary is that when I'm not checking ID and letting people through the heavy gates into hidden corridors of the facility, I'm handling paperwork of slaves and prisoners.

Mutants, mutants, mutants…almost every morning there's someone new. The guards tromp in, sit a malnourished whelp in front of me and practically put a gun to the poor creature's head so that I can get their details. Do they know any other mutants? Where were they born? What was their name? Their age? When had their powers developed?

Then the mutant is whisked away, and I file the records.

I'm no fool – I know where they go. There are hundreds of cells under the first floor, and below that…it doesn't bear thinking about. But I know what goes on; I stay here to make sure it happens to as few mutants as I can manage.

…You see, this is a mutant testing facility.

I understand it's run by a rogue faction in the army or something like that. I don't know what they call themselves; I just know they get their funding from a number of government officials. Apparently it's been around since before the 'mutant problem' was even publicly heard of. Having access to almost every file, I can even determine when it was established – 1947.

Of course, this is only one branch of the operation – I work in the Canadian branch. I've processed over twelve hundred mutants in the two years I've been here…and, through fixing the deportment schedules, I've managed to get five hundred of them to safety.

I was put here with a purpose, and I don't mean that in the overzealously religious way – I am employed firstly by one Professor Charles Xavier; I don't know much about him, only that he's got the bankroll to fund a mutant liberation organization. I haven't met him in person, but I send careful coded letters to him to report on my progress every week. Somewhere, after the mutants I organize to be deported have left, they find their way into his care. I don't ask how, but the Professor sends me letters – coded – to tell me if the operation had been successful or not. Only twice has it gone badly, but that doesn't deter Xavier or his supporters.

And I'm thankful for that.

This facility, my situation, the soldiers I see every day and the doctors I give clearance to in the mornings and at nights…all of it sickens me. Physically, I'm a wreck, but I can hide it. I eat more to compensate for the way my nerves eat at me, and pancake makeup does wonders on violet hues under your eyes, let me tell you. Mentally, I'm even worse…

I have to hide my mutation – yes, I'm a mutant. I'm a telepath, and I understand I'm pretty powerful. The Professor told me explicitly, when I was interviewed over the phone by him, that the reason I had been picked for the opportunity was that I could _hide_ my mutant gene, even from the detector tests. Whenever a blood sample was necessary, Xavier's supporters would manage to take care of it for me. It's…amazing, and deceptive. No one's twigged that I'm a mutant; I don't look like it – I was born of two upstanding citizens, though both quietly mutant supporters, and even went to university. I'm a natural redhead, fair skinned and light-eyed. Almost Aryan, the Professor once quipped as if it were kind of a joke – I guess it is, though.

No one would guess, though that's both a blessing and a curse at times. I can't stand talking to the doctors – they're even _cheery_ when they check in for work! The soldiers are even worse – some joke or sneer about mutants, and others flirt with me and ask me out; I don't know which predicament is worse, for me.

But the worst of all of them is the leader, supervisor or…I don't know what you'd call him…commanding officer, I suppose, of the facility. Colonel William Stryker.

Stryker is a snake of a man – his narrow eyes, his venomous tongue, his leathery skin… Every time I look at him I swear he knows my secret, but then he smiles this smile of his at me, like we're sharing some kind of great experience here, eradicating mutants…

I can remember one occasion – the only time I have ever heard him talk – when he was checking out for the night, with a couple of doctors reporting the day's progress as they all went. "Some of our subjects have, unfortunately, uh…_quit_ the experimentation today, I'm afraid, Colonel," a sandy-haired doctor was saying as they checked out. He smiled as he checked his ID with me, before looking back at Stryker. "Fifteen this week, all up."

The Colonel grinned hugely, his cruel eyes gleaming. "Well men, you know what the boys in the barracks call fifteen dead mutants," he told them as he gave me his ID card. "…A _good_ _start_!"

It's a worthwhile job, but…damn it, it has _got_ to be one of the more difficult jobs in the world.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine – see 'Marvel'.

Author's Notes: No more Jean-first-person writing. Now we get to the fun. Hope some people are still reading here. Review, if you are, please.

---

**Scum of the Earth**

Chapter One

---

_Tap, tap…tap_.

Jean paused typing for a moment to pop another delicious jellybean into her mouth. It was well past noon, after lunch, and she wasn't hungry, but the jellybeans were right there…what woman could turn down sweet, sweet sugar? Besides diabetics, of course. She smiled slightly at the computer screen, and made a few more adjustments to the file she had open. Mortimer Toynbee, resident of the Canadian testing facility for three months…he now only had two more weeks there, before he'd embark on a number of transfers, being forgotten in the paperwork and picked up by the Professor. Jean's smile widened. It felt good to help.

_Beep._

Jean spun around in her gas-lift chair; there were two guards on the other side of the clearance gate. One had swiped an expectedly valid identification through the security checkpoint – she pressed the big red button under her desk, and turned to face them. Two soldiers together often meant that there was a wreck of a mutant being held between them.

Sure enough, there was. "Another one, Ms Gibson," the older of the two soldiers declared as the pair pulled in their hapless prisoner. Jean ignored her alias, tried not to look at the mutant, knowing she was staring, and merely gestured for her to be brought into the next room. She got up and steeled herself for another processing, opening the door into the next room.

The 'processing room'. It was a tiny concrete cube, into which a wooden table had been crammed, with two cheap plastic chairs on opposite ends of it. There was a clipboard, with the crisp, white interview sheet already prepared and waiting.

The older soldier locked the doors and stood guard. The younger one, whom Jean recognized as a uniform who liked to flirt with her, stood behind the mutant.

The mutant herself left no question about her genes – her hair was vibrantly green, almost like a neon light, and her eyes matched. She was pale from cold and fear, covered with the grime of travel and the blood and bruises of a struggle, but Jean could tell she would've been pretty and young otherwise.

The woman stared at her with fierce eyes, blaming her. The suppressor collar around her neck bleeped furiously. Jean tried to school her features – she had to look nonchalant, uncaring, even bored. She had to be just like the doctors, and the soldiers. She had to regard this woman like a waste of valuable time. It should've been easier to do, after two years, but it wasn't.

Pen in hand, Jean got down to business. "Name," she commanded, trying to sound imperious and uninterested at the same time.

The woman seemed to contemplate rebelling. Jean wished she could use her telepathy to let her know what was going on, but she couldn't – not only were there those damned collars, which would stop her ability dead like it did any other mutant gene, but there were sensors that would sound an alarm like the roar at the end of the world. There were some technological advances she could really do without…

"Lorna Dane," the green-haired woman finally said. She said it heavily, her shoulders slumping – she was conceding defeat. She'd fought and lost. Again, Jean was fighting the impulse to consol her. How much easier would this task be if she could just say 'I'm on your side'?

"Mutant alias," she said instead.

"Polaris," the woman replied instantaneously.

"Birthplace."

"Boston."

"Mutant affiliations." Polaris looked confused. Jean shook her head, looking impatient. "Do you know any other mutants? Groups?"

The woman raised an eyebrow, like she was saying 'as if I'd tell you'. "None." It was put out plainly before they were dragged in that they could get some kind of half-baked false immunity by handing over others. Polaris knew, but she had more moral fiber than that.

Jean almost smiled. "Age of mutant manifestation."

"Thirteen."

"Current age."

"Twenty-three."

Five years younger than Jean herself. Poor woman. When she was twenty-three, she'd been in her honor's year at university…

---

Jean popped another jellybean into her mouth, then another, and another. She wasn't even chewing them now. It was a nervous displacement-action. Sweet foods were a crutch now but she couldn't be bothered stamping it out. She typed in the rest of Polaris's file – heading it with the serial number the guards were now about to tattoo her with – then saving the file and then securing it. Jean wondered absently, as she sometimes would, if the Professor would see that the mutants he saved got rid of those tattoos. They were a constant reminder – on the forearm of each mutant here was a serial number.

"Just like in the Holocaust," the Professor had said over the phone once. "I have an old friend who was in the German concentration camps; he works with me here, though is always clamoring that we do more. Those tattoos, when he first saw them, sent him into a blind rage. But he won't have his removed, and I think many of the mutants we save won't either." He laughed a little, ironically.

She couldn't understand why that was. Perhaps they were accepting that there was no running from that part of their past; maybe they liked to be reminded of their pain and felt they deserved it, so broken down as they were; maybe they just didn't want to go through the hassle of laser removal surgery. Whatever the reason, Jean realized – as she popped another jellybean into her mouth – she wasn't ever likely to understand it entirely.

_Beep_.

Jean pressed the red button under her desk and turned to look at the approaching soldiers – the soldiers' guarding the cells currently were about to be relieved. One of them, a big dumb blond, stopped at the checkpoint window and smiled at her. "Hey, Jeannie."

She smiled at him, trying to radiate happiness and all the other good feelings that she wasn't getting right now. "Hello, Duncan." She turned back to the screen, and resisted the urge to chug the rest of her jellybeans. She'd kept her first name when using the alias 'Gibson'. That was enough, surely?

"Processed any more today?" he asked, trying to peer around at the screen. Jean closed Polaris's file, and turned back to him.

"Just two." Polaris had been the second; twenty minutes into the morning, Jean had to process another – a deathly pale, stuttering and half-insane mutant who called himself 'Sinister'. They'd found him standing over the corpse of a soldier who'd been keeping guard on the gate. She frowned to herself and popped a jellybean – she still couldn't understand what had gotten into _that_ one. Most mutants knew enough to keep away from this area…

"I heard about that one in the morning…" Duncan had, at least, the sensitivity to be worried for her 'delicate senses', which – though the sentiment was misplaced concerning this particular – was more than any of the other soldiers could claim to. "He wasn't too bad, was he?"

Jean forced a smile. "Oh, he was a little more than I'm used to dealing with before I've had my two coffees in the morning."

Duncan grinned, looking even more like an attractive, vacant jock. He was an all-American type of guy – he'd grown up with perfect parents, masses of friends, a place on the football team and more popularity than the geeks and nerds of his school could dream up. He had blue eyes, blond hair and a physique that was striven for in gyms all over the world. It was a pity that this outstanding specimen of Yankee upbringing didn't have two brain cells to introduce to each other…but this place probably wouldn't have him any other way.

"Isn't your shift about to start?" Jean asked, looking down the corridor as the group he'd come in with laughed and stomped themselves out of sight.

"Oh, yeah…" He looked down the corridor, and started to edge away. "I'll, uh, probably see you on the way up again…talk to you then."

"See you," Jean said, waving him away with a smile, before grabbing a whole handful of jellybeans and shoving them in her mouth. It wasn't just the injustices done here – it was that she had to make _nice_ with the people who instigated and joked about them. She turned back to the computer and brought up another transferal form, her hands shaking with anger.

---

Elizabeth Braddock was only one click on the 'save' button away from freedom in a month when the alarms began to ring. Red lights flashed, the scuffle of boots could be faintly heard over the noise of the sirens, and beyond that were the shouts of orders and screams…screams?

_Whoop, whoop, whoop_.

Jean shoved herself away from the computer, eyes wide, shaking like a leaf. Something was…what? Had she been caught?

But, no, of course not…

_Beep_.

Over the whoop, whoop of the sirens came the signal to let up the gates. Jean pressed the red button under her desk, trying to control her shaking hands, and composed herself, sitting back down and shoveling another handful of jellybeans into her mouth. Calming, sweet sugar…

She turned to the window over the desk and looked for the approaching soldiers. There were many of them, but they were subduing something…something _snarling_.

Eyes wide, Jean pushed her chair away from the window and backed right into the wall opposite it. The senior officer who'd brought in Polaris was there, with a heavy gash across his cheek. He untangled himself from the melee, sought Jean, nodded acknowledgement and began barking orders to his men to drag their snarling captive into the processing room.

Jean watched the mass of struggling uniforms herd the mutant into the room, but didn't dare go in herself. "My God," she whispered. "What was…what's going on?"

The senior soldier was still there. He turned to face her, bleeding freely and obviously angry. "Healing mutant," he explained shortly. He made a face, spat, and a tooth clattered to the concrete ground. "Shit," he muttered, looking at the tooth with something akin to awe. "That little fuck…" He stopped himself, looked up at Jean, and wiped the blood off of his face with his sleeve. "Sorry, Miss Gibson. But, needless to say, tranquilizers don't work too good on a healing mutant. He's a fighter. Got his hands on Reed's gun, too…coulda been a massacre…"

Jean wasn't looking at him, though – the tooth tap, tap, tapping to the ground had drew her attention down, where a trail of blood advertised just how much the healing mutant didn't want to be there. "I…oh, God…is anyone…?"

"No one's too bad, but the mutant's pretty shot up." The soldier spat again, adding more blood to the smear on the floor. He shrugged. "He'll heal. We've had orders not to collar this one yet."

"But why?"

The soldier shrugged again. "You don't have to come in yet, Miss," he added, as he started walking away to the processing room. "Stryker wants to sit in on this interview, and we need to get some more tranquilizers on this bastard anyway…it's not safe to let you in there just yet." He snorted. "He's a goddamn animal."

"Absolutely right," came a new, but chillingly familiar voice. _Stryker_. Jean looked down the corridor to find the Colonel himself approaching with a mass of doctors in tow. "In there," he told them, gesturing to the processing room. They filed in, and the Colonel turned to Jean. "Once he's subdued, he'll probably only answer to a gentler voice than my lieutenants have, so we still need you to do it," he told her. "He won't talk now, but God knows what he'd do to you like he is anyway." He sneered and looked at the door over his shoulder, where the snarling mutant was now raging louder than ever. "Goddamn animal."

The door separating her office and the processing room rattled and crunched – something was being thrown on it. Jean yelped and backed away. In all her time there, she had never, ever been afraid of a mutant, not even Sinister, whose eyes were red as fire, just like his hands were red with the blood of his kill.

Finally, the yelling and the scuffling died down. After a moment of silence, a young bloodied soldier appeared in the corridor, saluting Stryker. The white-coated men filed out behind him and slipped away from sight down the corridor. "The mutant's subdued, sir," the soldier reported. "The doctors can only guess how much time until it wears off."

"How long?" Stryker demanded with narrowed eyes.

"Twenty minutes."

The Colonel looked at Jean. "That long enough?"

Jean nodded, pale and shaking. "I'll…right. Is he…?"

"He's restrained, Miss Gibson," the bloodied young soldier told her, sympathetic. "He's tied, and we've got a collar ready for him if he gets too…enraged. It'll stop him from going through the drugs so quickly, they reckon…"

"Of course it will," Stryker barked. "Back inside, soldier!"

The young man saluted smartly, and hurried back. The senior officer followed, and Stryker approached the glassless window of Jean's office. "We already know a fair bit," he told her confidentially, quietly. "Whatever he doesn't tell you, I've got in an old army recruitment folder…"

"He was in the army?" Jean asked, gathering her wits and trying to compose herself. That little bit of information _did_ strike her as odd…how had he avoided escape for so long, then, if they had a file on him?

Stryker grinned. "In Vietnam, Korea _and_ the Second World War, it seems," he told her quietly. "Try to get his age out of him – I can't find the truth on that one – and anything about him before he enlisted. He won't be able to tell much from shit right now, but you might be able to get that out of him." He started towards the door in the corridor. "Just follow procedure. You'll be completely safe, Miss Gibson."

Jean didn't believe that, but knew it would probably be her job if she said 'no'. So she took a deep breath, practically drank the rest of her jellybeans, and grabbed a pen. The clipboard would already be waiting for her, if it hadn't been decimated. Prepared, but not ready, she opened the door.

Sure enough, they had _something_ tied up. As he looked, with his head hanging down, he certainly didn't look like he could have seen the Second World War – his skin was a little weather-beaten and torn in the struggle, but he wasn't _old_. His hair was blacker than a night's sky; not a touch of grey could be seen. He was taking very good care of himself, to be as old as Stryker was suggesting.

Jean pulled back the plastic chair opposite him and sat down carefully. The clipboard was in front of her – she picked it up. That got the man's attention. He looked up slowly, then raised his head a little more when he got a better look at her. Maybe he was surprised that she wasn't a soldier; maybe he was just wondering what was going on. Jean avoided his eyes.

She opened her mouth, and prepared to get into it, but there was a hand on her shoulder. Stryker leaned down to her ear. "I know it's a bit much to ask, Miss Gibson," he said, "but I'd like you to put on your counseling skills for this one. Coax the information out of him. It might throw him off enough to get an answer."

Jean nodded slowly, and looked down at her clipboard. During her psychology course, she'd never expected to wind up cajoling information out of a crazed, bloodied mutant across an interrogation table in the presence of freshly-wounded soldiers.

She looked up at him, to find him staring at her. His eyes were empty and brown, but she had the feeling his mind was going a mile a minute. He was coming to grips with what was around him, just like every other mutant who'd ever sat in that chair. He was calculating his odds. He was fighting off the drug-induced haze he was under.

Jean blinked and looked down at the clipboard again. Coax information out of him, huh? She could _try_.

"Hello," she began, looking up once again and feeling oddly embarrassed. "Don't be alarmed, I'm not here to make you uncomfortable. I just want to talk."

He said nothing.

"I'd like to know a little about you."

Nothing.

"Is there anything you'd like to start me off with…your name, maybe? What you do for a living?"

Nothing.

Jean paused. "Would you like anything? A drink? Something to eat?"

That got a response, but not anything audible. His eyes ceased being empty and began to show something like surprise. Jean took advantage.

"Well, if you won't say anything, I might as well start things off," she said, putting down the pen and crossing her legs. According to one of her lecturers at university, the best thing to do with patients who wouldn't talk was to keep talking yourself, to make yourself known to them so that they'd be comfortable with you. She schooled her expression to look calm and casual, and put down the clipboard as she leaned back in her chair. Cool, calm and composed. "My name's Jean Gibson."

His eyes began to empty again. Jean's mouth twisted a little. Here was a challenge. She had to keep him mildly interested in her conversation. The best method of doing that was to go off on something random – that got _most_ people's attention.

"My best friend in high school broke her two front teeth when she hit her head getting into her prom limousine, but just kept her mouth shut for the night so she could still go," she said conversationally, looking away from him and into space, as though she were reminiscing. "My staunchly religious great-aunt used to call me a whore because I tied my hair in pigtails. Oh, and my father's company were amongst the first to start that annoying spam email thing – his friends still hit him over the head for that."

She was getting a response – he looked confused, wondering where this was going; she'd thrown him off-guard. Well, it was a start. She smiled a little, and sat a little straighter.

"Don't you have anything – anything at all – that you could tell me?" she wheedled. "Even a name – it doesn't even have to be yours. Something you've heard once. I don't care – I just want to talk."

Still nothing. His eyes were getting a little clearer now, and the confusion in them was gone, replaced with a guarded look. Jean bit her bottom lip, and sighed.

"I don't want to be the bad guy," she told him quietly, "and I know that's useless to say, because I'm only ever going to be that according to you, but one thing that will always help you here is cooperation. If you at least talk to me, give me the information I've been told to get, then you won't have to deal with the soldiers so much." And that wasn't an empty threat. Often, uncooperative mutants who wouldn't give their information to her on command were beaten to unconsciousness, revived, then brought back. "Trust me; giving me the information up front is the lesser of two evils, as far as this stage of things is concerned."

His expression had hardened, but his eyes – almost clear of the drugs now – seemed to say he conceded to her point. "What do you wanna know?" he demanded.

Jean's stomach tightened uncomfortably. He was slurring over a bruised mouth, but that didn't make him any harder to hear. His voice was harsh, probably through lack of use, and she had the feeling that it was the last thing many people had ever heard.

But she collected herself – she composed her features, and picked up the clipboard and pen again. "How about your name, for a start?"

"I don't know."

Jean paused. "You never had one, or…?"

"Amnesia." Jean quirked an eyebrow, and the man mimicked the gesture. "Hand to God."

"Have you ever heard a name that sounded…right?" she asked, shrugging at the lack of a better word.

He paused. "Logan," he said finally.

"Right." Jean didn't even write it down – she was going to remember all of this conversation, she didn't need notes. "Any aliases you go by?"

"None. Never wanted one."

"Fair enough," Jean said, nodding. "Really, with some of the other aliases I've heard…"

"What else?"

Jean pursed her lips. "Age?"

"No idea."

She sighed. "Birthplace?"

"Don't know."

"Huh." Jean tapped the pen against the unused clipboard. "Any other mutants you know?"

Logan's head snapped up, surprised. Jean was a bit confused – surely he'd expected that question? But an idea seemed to be churning around in his head.

"Creed," he said, spitting out the word. "Victor Creed." He almost grinned at her, like they were sharing an in-joke, purposely excluding the soldiers. "Always said I'd drag him to hell with me."

With friends like these… Jean looked away from him. "… Permanent residency?"

"Canadian woods."

Jean looked back up. "You've been living in the forests? In the middle of winter?"

"Nice to see you all concerned about me…Jeannie," he sneered, baring his feral canine teeth.

At this point Stryker, who'd been getting angrier and angrier behind Jean, grabbed the back of her chair and dragged her away from the table. "He's off the tranquilizers again!" he roared at the doctors. "Drug him up, clap on a goddamn collar and get him the hell out of my sight!" And with that, he was out of the room.

Jean leapt off of her chair and fled to the door to her office as three soldiers advanced, holding Logan down as one of the doctors prepared a syringe. She slammed the door behind her, belatedly realizing she forgot the clipboard, as the snarling broke out again, and the soldiers yelled at each other in confusion and panic.

It hadn't gone well. Stryker had nothing that he wanted, Jean had no hope of transferring the mutant without a lot of notice, and Logan himself was about to embark on the worst experience imaginable. She closed her eyes and sat back down at her desk, reaching for the jellybean bowl before she realized there was nothing left in it.

"The story of my life," she whispered to herself, as the furious roars and sounds of the struggle died down.

---


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine – again I say, see 'Marvel'.

Author's Notes: If you're still reading, thank you. If not, then you won't ever see this anyway, so I can belittle you as much as I like. But I choose not to, because I'd actually like to use this space to request reviews from those who are still reading – feedback is everyone's friend.

* * *

**Scum of the Earth**

Chapter Two

* * *

Every day, with traffic, it would take her an hour to get to work, and an hour to get home.

At home, Jean was a wreck. She let herself cry, rage and scream, but even then she had to exercise some degree of caution – she lived in an apartment; above her was an out-of-love elderly couple who complained if ever her TV was too loud, and below was a pretentious artist who demanded absolute silence for his work on his 'creations'. She didn't have to bother with either of them often, but they would always seem to present themselves when she wanted just to rant and vent…

But also there were her powers – if she flew off the handle, so did they. So there was always some degree of restraint.

That night, she was calmer than she had been for a long time. Almost in a trance, she made herself spaghetti, sat down in front of the TV and began eating, not even aware what the news presenter was telling her. She finished the bowl, did the dishes, and sat back in the lounge room, curling up on her soft sofa.

As always, in the quiet with only the television for company, her mind drifted towards the masses that were sleeping on hard bunks, shivering and waiting for morning, for Hell. Usually that would bring on her crying fits, or her raging fits, but not tonight…no. Now, she just felt afraid.

…_Nice to see you all concerned_…

Jean curled into a ball, pulling her knees into her chest. There was something in Logan's feral grin that didn't mean well for anyone working at that facility. What else would you expect, though? Jean bit her lips together. It's one of the prices of being the monster. She hoped that, when they reached safety, the Professor told them she wasn't the bad guy.

God, when would her work be done? She couldn't take much more of this, but she knew, at the same time, that she couldn't leave the compound alone as long as there were test subjects there.

…_Nice to see you all concerned_…

* * *

"Hello, Miss Gibson."

"Good morning, Doctor Macmillan."

Jean turned back to the computer screen again as the white-coated woman strode through the formidable gates. It was time to begin restocking the labs – she had an order form in front of her on the monitor. The army could deny all links until they were blue in the face, but this facility and more than likely all the others were still getting supplies directly from the same place as the armed forces. But the orders had to be placed before the hard winter set in…

She had chocolate instead of jellybeans today, which was her idea of tapering off – chocolate was harder to eat, surprisingly; she could only handle a little at a time. Her teeth hurt when she ate it too much; cavities, probably. Damn.

Morphine wasn't a necessity, the doctors would say, but it certainly helped. They were demanding a little more than usual with this new order – a merciful streak in them now, perhaps. Jean doubted it. Most of what they called for was surgical instruments and monitoring machinery. There was a slight decrease in the demand for bandages, though. Jean wondered what that meant.

"Miss Gibson."

Jean looked up, and immediately had to fight off the urge to cringe. Stryker, stoic as always, was towering over her reception window. "Hello, Colonel," she greeted amicably. "Uh…sorry I couldn't get much out of…" She shrugged, gesturing towards the door of the processing room. She was still mystified as to why he wanted to sit in on that interrogation.

He waved off her apologies, his features softening a little – he even managed a small, offhand smile. "Hardly your fault – it was only a vain hope, in any case. I don't need his particulars. I just wanted to see if you'd sent off the medical supplies request yet."

"Uh…no, not yet," she replied, looking back at the screen – still over half of the items to record down; so many chemicals with such long names. "It's almost ready, though…"

"Caught you just in the nick of time, then," he returned, smiling a little more. "Now…" He leaned over the window. "It's not exactly a medical expense, but I've called ahead on this…I need you to write off a little something for me here. A specially-made crucible, and four custom pressure-pumps."

"Do you have the…?"

"I have a list drawn up." He slid a bit of paper over the counter. "It's only a few simple things, but my superiors want it written off as a medical expense." He laughed a little. "I suppose they could only be that, really. Just make sure you get that list off in two days – I need them by next week." And, with that, he began to walk away.

Only once he was gone did Jean look down at the list – it held a few more things than he'd said; more compounds she couldn't recognize. She hadn't done too well at chemistry in high school…all the complicated names for things that were different by a handful of molecules, all the careful procedures never appealed to her. It probably would have been worth paying attention to, but how would she have known where she'd end up?

Well…she had orders…

With one last sweeping look at the list, she began to type the order in.

* * *

"Hey, Jeannie."

Jean flinched and spun around in her computer chair, wide eyed, only to face the all-American soldier, Duncan – gentle and lumbering as a puppy, as long as he didn't know about her mutant genes. She breathed a slight sigh of relief, and threw a piece of chocolate in her mouth. Only _now_ would she be happy to hear her name contorted by him.

"Hello, Duncan."

"Are you alright?" he asked, leaning over the counter. He seemed genuinely concerned, seeing her so pale and jumpy. Jean smiled at him, almost wistfully – he was a nice guy; he always had time for a little talk and he could listen, too. She might've accepted his invitations out, if he weren't a mutant-hating bigot.

And an idiot.

"Just a little…peaky." No point in lying – she had violet rings under her eyes that no amount of pancake makeup could hide. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably every time she left them without something to write or type. She ate another bit of chocolate.

He grinned, watching this movement. "You must exercise a lot. Every time I see you, you're eating candy but you're still gorgeous."

"Fast metabolism," she told him with a smile. Fast metabolism, plus stress, plus sleepless nights pacing her living room… "Plus exercise."

"I don't know how you fit in a social life," he went on.

"I don't."

"You've gotta be kidding me! You don't go out?"

Jean almost smacked herself over the head – she knew where this was going to lead.

"Why don't you come out with me tonight, then?" he asked, leaning over the window a little more, smiling a little wider. "There's this restaurant…"

"What's that rule about co-workers, Duncan?" Jean asked, trying to sound playfully friendly, and nothing else.

"Hey, aren't rules meant to be broken?"

"I wonder how your commanding officers think of that philosophy."

Duncan's grin widened again. "So I don't share the opinion often…come on, Jeannie, you spend too much time running around for this place; spend a little time for yourself."

Jean shook her head. "I'm sorry…not tonight, at least, or anytime soon. I didn't sleep last night." Honesty again – she hadn't slept for any more than two hours last night.

Immediately, Duncan turned serious. "Oh, shit…I heard about that raving mutie they made you interview. You must be pretty shook up, huh?"

"That's a bit of an understatement," she told him, popping another piece of chocolate into her mouth. And it was, too. The moniker 'Jeannie' wouldn't be right coming from _anyone_ for a long time, now. Not that anyone else besides Duncan used it…

"I don't get why Stryker made you do it…"

Jean shrugged. "It's partly my job," she replied. "And I have a degree in psychology. I'll be able to deal with it; I just need a little time. He was…" She waved a hand, shrugging.

"He's a feral freak," Duncan muttered, pulling out of the window and looking down the corridor. "Sixteen soldiers injured, did you know? He almost _mauled_ Paul to death; he's not gonna be able to walk properly for two months…"

"Oh, God." Jean put her head in her hands, and Duncan immediately shut up. He muttered some apology and hurried out of sight, but Jean didn't really notice. She popped a handful of chocolate in her mouth, welcoming the pain in her cavities.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

"Jean! How's everything in Canada?"

"Horrible." Jean's parents knew what she was in the midst of – they'd introduced her to the idea of helping the imprisoned mutants of the continent, but were reluctant to let her take on this project anyway. It almost gave whole new meaning to the term 'mother knows best', since her mother had been against this job more than her father – it felt kind of odd to have them supporting and deterring her at the same time. "I processed three more yesterday, and only managed to fill out transferal forms for two long-time residents. One of the newcomers killed a soldier and was demented, and another hospitalized sixteen…no fatalities from him, though."

There was a slight pause. "…So, how's your home-life?"

Jean smiled a little. "Non-existent," she replied honestly. All her time and energy went into her work. "Now I know how you get so caught up in your job."

Her father laughed a little. "Yes, but I don't save lives, I just make money."

"Hmm. The magical green substance; money." Jean herself had saved up quite a bit. She could go somewhere really relaxing next holidays, but… "I don't want to leave there at nights," she confessed. "I want to…_do_ something, but I can't."

"Jean…" He paused. "You don't have to stay there. In fact, I know it would cause a lot less stress for both you and your mother…and me. Xavier can always find a replacement."

"I can't finish with it like that," she told him. "I'll be the bad guy."

"What? When were you ever the bad guy?"

"To the mutants I am. The newest one especially let me know just what he thought," Jean confessed. "The interrogation…" She shivered. "He was so angry, and covered in other people's blood…" She knew she wasn't making much sense, but she couldn't form the sentences properly.

There was a pause. "Jean…only you can decide what to do with yourself. There are other opportunities to help other people…opportunities that don't see you risking your life like this…"

"I know," she said quietly. She looked up at the clock on the wall. "It's almost eight, Dad. I'd better get going. Thank you."

"Take care of yourself, kiddo."

"You too. Give Mom my love."

* * *

"Have you sent off that supplies form, yet?" one of the doctors asked as he swept by with his ID.

"Just done before we shut up last night," Jean told him placidly, rubbing her eyes. She still had chocolate at the side of her computer. She should cut back on the sugar – she only got another two hours sleep last night. But the sugar wasn't the problem, anyway.

The doctor hurried out of sight. He was twenty minutes late. Mind you, he had a valid excuse; the snow had only started to come down heavy during peak hour, and the weather girl had been cheerily proclaiming a slight chill and nothing else all week. Jean glanced up at the ventilation system. It was only for show now, since the latest budget cut, so the place was as cold as a tomb.

"Huh. Ironic."

Bringing up a transferal form, Jean realized it was probably colder in the cells than it was in her office. And at least she had her sweater, and a warm scarf. Still, the mutants she was helping probably appreciated their freedom more than creature comforts.

Who next? She sighed as she repeated her 'choosing process'. The files were very comprehensive – the dates were all clearly marked. She just had to search the files; who had been there the longest? Skids or Morph? Starfire or Blackout? All it came down to was a random selection; she refused to read each one of the files and see which case was worse – it was hard enough to do this job. If only she were stronger and more determined…or more unfeeling and cold.

With a grimace and a handful of chocolate, she opened Blackout's files and began filling in his particulars.

* * *

"Hey, Mom."

"Jean, I want you to listen to me for just a minute…"

She smiled into the phone. "Uh oh…"

"Your father and I have been talking, and we both think it would be good if you could apply for a transfer. Somewhere closer to home. Canada must be a nightmare in winter…"

"There's nothing worse than a few feet of snow, after all…"

"…And Christmas is coming anyway, and I'll bet you haven't applied for time off to come down. You know we're having a family Christmas this year. I even managed to convince your Uncle Ray to come up from Florida…oh, but he's bringing this new girlfriend of his with him, the Cuban; his sons will be furious when they see her, of course…"

"Mom…"

"Oh, that reminds me, did I tell you that Peggy from across the street is pregnant? You remember her, don't you? She was a year or two above you in high school. Got married to that lovely boy from Washington…a stock broker, I think he is. I forget his name, though – he's not really the kind to stand out, after all, but he is _hugely_ successful."

"Mom."

"Yes, it's her second," her mother continued, talking almost accusingly now. Jean smiled and closed her eyes. Her mother was always clamoring for grandchildren. "Her mother's so happy. She's given me an invite for you to the baby shower. Oh, and by the way, the Summers' are bringing their son down with them to the area. He's coming to the New Year dinner that Harold and Olivia Morris are throwing – I told them you'd be going, so you can meet him while you're here…"

"_Mom_."

"He's acting as a personal assistant to a marvelously rich man in New York, you know," she continued. "Masses of money. Single. The dinner is two days after New Year's Day, though, but I'm sure you can stay back a little later than usual just for once."

"Mom, please…"

Finally there was silence on the other end. Then a sigh. "I know you think I'm all fussy over you and the idea of grandchildren, Jean," she said, "but I…"

"…Don't want to talk about my job?"

"Well, _no_."

Jean's smile wilted. "I know." She paused. Her job was practically her life now; she had nothing else to talk about. "So, uh…how did you get Uncle Ray to come to the Christmas dinner? I thought him and Dad were still arguing…"

"I don't see what their problem is, either of them. All over that silly ding in the side of Ray's car. They just don't know how to listen to each other, that's all. They were like that all their life, your father says."

"Uh huh…"

* * *


End file.
